THE TAILOR & THE SEAMSTRESS
III. Never Just Dinner
The streets of New York City were busy, bustling under the spring sunshine, the flagstones still slick from an unexpected shower.
Remy LeBeau stood on the steps of the Maison Maillot and lit up a cigarette.
People-watching was a great source of inspiration – every so often a gentleman might pass wearing a particularly interesting necktie, which, these days, was the only concession to frivolity a man was allowed. The women, of course, were far greater wells of creative vision. Opposite the House of Burford, there was no shortage of such muses – a jauntily-placed frill, a curiously-constructed pleat, a particularly daring neckline.
Yes – there was much profit in people-watching, and he often did this, his observations frequently finding their way into his work.
His idle gaze was drawn towards a finely-dressed young lady entering Burford's across the road; and as she entered, her flounced train sweeping the steps behind her, out slipped the seamstress called Miss. Raven.
He perked up a little as she clattered down the steps and onto the streets; and despite his better judgement, he could not help but call out to her.
"Miss. Raven!"
She stopped and looked about her, obviously unused to being addressed so familiarly out in public. He waved to her, and he caught her eye; her gaze widened, and, without too much hesitation, he was happy to see, she approached him.
"Mr. LeBeau," she greeted him neutrally. She glanced up at the building, then down at him. "You didn't tell me you worked at Maison Maillot."
"You didn't ask."
She was thoroughly unimpressed – nothing much seemed to impress her, and he found it rather endearing.
"Of course a man with such a shrewd eye could only work at one of the most celebrated ateliers in the world," she merely commented sardonically.
He grinned.
"Of course."
"Mr. Burford would not be happy to know that an employee from a rival company had been admitted onto his premises."
"No doubt," he agreed cheerfully. "But I've stolen nothing from your establishment, I can assure you, mam'selle."
She eyed him doubtfully. He was used to women believing him implicitly, but she, evidently, did not. It was yet another thing about her he found endearing.
"Perhaps," he continued blithely, "I can return the favour, and give you a little tour of our own workrooms, Miss. Raven."
She still looked suspicious. It was, perhaps, the first time he had met a woman who was invulnerable to his innate charm. He, however, was not immune to hers. For charming she certainly was. Even her inexpensive coat could not hide the natural grace of her figure; and, in the daylight, he could see that her hair was indeed redder than he had first thought it. What was not hidden under the perennial kerchief shone auburn in the sun.
"You've paid me more than enough favours, Mr. LeBeau," she returned pertly, yet not without a hint of humour. "First your advice, then your umbrella – how is a girl ever to repay you?"
Well! This was far too opportune a moment for him to pass up!
"Some ideas do spring to mind…" he mused, studying the cigarette between his fingers nonchalantly.
"No doubt," she parried back expertly. "I am sure you're a man of quite expansive imagination. I hardly dare ask what you have in mind."
Remy flicked his gaze back to hers, an appreciative little smile tugging at his lips. Where any other woman would welcome his attention with coquettish laughs and coy flirtation, she did not deliver. Here was a morsel who would not readily whet a man's appetite.
But then, he had always enjoyed a challenge.
"Let me take you to dinner tonight," he offered, perfectly serious now.
She was rarely moved to astonishment – but there was a trace of it then, in the delicate lifting of her eyebrows.
"Mr. LeBeau, we barely know one another."
"Precisely. I should like to get to know you a little better. Does the idea offend you?" She said nothing in reply, and he added honestly: "If it does, then I promise not to bother you again. You seem the kind of woman who does not suffer fools gladly. And I wouldn't have you think me a fool, Miss. Raven."
Her smile was faint, though genuine.
"Monsieur," she replied, "I will be busy tonight. I have a deadline to keep with the famous Peacock Dress, and Mr. Burford would not appreciate me gallivanting with young men until it is finished."
She hadn't rejected his offer outright. That was promising.
"Then when are you next free of tight deadlines?" he felt bold enough to ask.
She thought about it.
"Perhaps this Friday evening."
"Then would this Friday evening be a good time for a tailor and a seamstress to go gallivanting?"
Her green eyes sparkled mischievously.
"No gallivanting if you please, sir. I will accept an offer of dinner though, in some reputable establishment."
He gave a mock bow, which he fancied she almost laughed at.
"As you wish, mam'selle. Would seven be a good time for you?"
"Outside here? Yes."
"Then I'll see you then."
Her green eyes danced with pleasure.
"Yes, you will. Good day, Mr. LeBeau."
"Good day, Miss. Raven."
But she had already turned neatly on her heel and was walking away.
-oOo-
The Peacock Dress was demanding a great deal of attention.
The tailors and the seamstresses were all tired, having worked countless hours to satisfy the desire of the beautiful actress, Belladonna Boudreaux, to possess it.
Miss. Raven, who was usually in the thick of the fray, was instead looking out the window on the third floor of the House of Burford and out onto the street below.
It could no longer escape her notice that, every day at midday, the man named Remy LeBeau would take his cigarette break on the steps outside Maison Maillot and watch the world go by.
Such a beautiful man, she thought to herself! She had thought so the first moment their paths had crossed, of course, though no one could have induced her to admit it. In the privacy of her own mind, however, she had no compunction doing so; and it was no small source of pleasure to her that he appeared to be as interested in her as she was slowly becoming in him.
"What are you looking at, Miss. Raven?"
A little startled out of her reverie, she turned to see her little assistant standing officiously behind her with a dainty china cup of tea in her hands.
"Oh – nothing much, Kitty."
"Really?" Kitty handed her the tea and peered out of the window beside her. "You had such a little smile on your face, Miss, that I thought you were looking at something rather pleasing."
Miss. Raven could not suppress that same smile lighting her lips.
"You're very observant, Kitty," she noted. "What do you see out there that could possibly be pleasing?"
Curious, the younger woman gently peeled back the venetian blinds and peered down onto the street below.
"Well, there is the news boy; and the shoe-shiner… and there is a fine carriage stopped outside on the kerb. And would you look at the brand-new Ford motorcar parked outside Maison Maillot!" She paused, blinked, and darted a look at her companion. "Surely it's not that man on the steps of Maison Maillot you're looking at, Miss!"
"Would it surprise you, Kitty?" Miss. Raven asked, a helpless little grin on her face.
Kitty looked shocked.
"I thought you weren't much for romance, Miss. Raven."
She took a sip of her tea to hide the widening of her smile.
"I think any woman would entertain a little romance when asked to dinner by a man such as him."
"Speaking for myself, Miss… yes, I surely would! But you…" She halted, dropped the blinds, and turned to her companion, eyes wide. "He asked you to dinner! And you said… yes?"
She looked so disturbed by the idea that Miss. Raven was moved to concern.
"Do you think I should've said no?"
"My mother always warned me never to stray too close to men who happen to be as handsome as the devil."
"My momma also," Miss. Raven responded wryly in her native accent. "But perhaps," she murmured as an afterthought, peering through the blinds again, "it is time I lived a little too."
-oOo-
Friday evening arrived, and at 7pm Remy hurried left the Maison Maillot from the front door and positioned himself underneath the streetlamp by the front steps.
Truth be told, he was rather looking forward to this particular conquest, for he sensed that Miss. Anna Raven was going to give him far more than he'd bargained for, and he did so enjoy the thrill of the chase.
By the time ten minutes had gone by without her making an appearance, he was very much certain his estimation of her was correct.
At fifteen minutes he checked his pocket watch and began to grow concerned that he had somehow played his cards all wrong.
At twenty-five minutes he accepted defeat and began to walk away.
"Mr. LeBeau!"
He turned and saw her approaching him; and as they joined one another under the streetlamp, he saw she was a little breathless.
"Miss. Raven," he greeted her with a genuine smile. "I was just about to give up on you arriving."
"My apologies," she spoke. "There was something I had to finish."
She was dressed in a dove blue coat with a wasp waist; and a chic little cartwheel hat was perched upon her neatly pinned up hair. She was completely free of ostentation, and yet, he thought, she still looked refreshingly lovely.
"Here." She held out his umbrella in her gloved hand. "My thanks for the kindness, sir."
He took the umbrella with a smile.
"No thanks, Miss. Raven," he assured her, tucking it under his arm. "It was a fine excuse to more properly make your acquaintance." He offered her his arm. "And please. Call me Remy."
She glanced at the proffered elbow, ruminating with some surprise at the readiness with which he confessed the umbrella to have been a ruse. He made a brazen show of honesty, she thought… enough, indeed, for her to suspect that he was honest enough to avoid others questioning his lies. That alone made it dangerous to trust him. Nevertheless, she accepted his arm.
"Anna," she offered her own name in return.
"Anna," he repeated, like he liked the name very much.
He turned, and she walked with him.
"Do you usually resort to subterfuge in order to get a woman to dinner?" she asked.
"No," he admitted. "I rarely have need of it."
"No," she mused cynically. "I don't suppose you do, Mr. LeBeau."
"Remy," he corrected her.
"Remy," she echoed, after a moment.
He looked down on her with a flash of a smile. In her slight Southern drawl, his name had the flavour of honeydew and magnolias. The more he got to know her, he thought, the more enticing a prospect she became.
"So," she spoke, with already easy familiarity. "Where is it that this tailor and this seamstress are to dine?"
"Only a little place not far from here," he replied. He had been careful to choose a place that was not one of the finer establishments he was used to eating at, but one which served delicious food that was downmarket enough not to rouse her suspicions. "One that specialises in curried chicken – and Waldorf pudding. Imagine that!"
"It sounds," she said, "as if you're speaking of Harry's Hideaway."
He was surprised.
"You've been there?"
"Oh yes," she answered with a small laugh. "Not usually for dinner though. Perhaps that's why we've never crossed paths there."
"Hm. Perhaps not."
Still, it was a clue that she was acquainted with this particular establishment. Harry's Hideaway was not especially well-known, except amongst a certain set of New York-based artistes. The people who usually patronised it had a reputation for being wild Bohemian types with a penchant for hedonism. Remy, depending on who he was with, was a frequent patron himself. So he felt completely at ease leading his companion inside once the doorman had recognised him, effectively beating the little queue that had formed outside.
It was a privilege that he knew had his companion wondering; but she said nothing, as, at that very moment, the proprietor of the house – a balding man with a very magnificent pair of red moustaches and bristling beard – made his entrance.
"Miss. Raven!" he exclaimed at the sight of her.
"Harry," she greeted him, with a sunny smile he had not yet been treated to. "It's been a while, hasn't it."
"Far too long," he agreed. He looked over at Remy and nodded. "Mr. LeBeau. I see the two of you are acquainted with one another. What a surprise! Will it be the usual spot?"
"If you please, Harry," Remy responded, still astonished, though pleasantly so, to find that his dinner companion was already a regular.
They were, of course, led to the best room in the house; and Harry officiously took her hat and coat as she took her seat.
"I had hoped to surprise you," Remy spoke, handing off his coat also. "But it seems you are already a regular here. I hope my choice doesn't disappoint."
"Not at all." She seemed quite at ease. "Harry could never disappoint me."
"Still," he noted helplessly. "It's not quite what I had in mind."
"Well," and her eyes glistened merrily, "perhaps you shall have some other chance to impress me in the near future, Mr. LeBeau."
He couldn't tell whether she was teasing or whether it was a promise. Either way, her lightened mood was quite contagious.
"Remy," he reminded her.
"Remy," she corrected herself again, in that same vaguely playful tone of voice.
For a few moments he took in her presence. She was still in her favoured two-piece ensemble – though the blouse she now wore was softer and more feminine, trimmed with lace; and he suspected, from the cut, that the simple wool skirt she was wearing was indeed a skirt and not culottes. Her carefully done-up hair – now uncovered – was almost red in the lamplight. He was surprised to see just how much of the unusual white streak was at her temples and brow.
She seemed to notice he was looking at her. This time, she did not blush.
"You are staring, Mr. LeBeau," she said.
"I have a keen eye for things of beauty," he reminded her with a good-natured shrug. He fancied she did blush then, at least a little.
"So you've said. Do you woo all women so transparently?"
"Only the ones who don't care to beat around the proverbial bush."
"And I am one of those sorts of women, sir?"
"Now, yes," he spoke what he knew instinctively to be true. "Before – no. You were a once romantic soul whose heart was gravely wounded. Now you no longer care for roses and tawdry baubles."
The guess hit closer to home than he had anticipated. She frowned; and then the wine came. He allowed it to distract from the few awkward moments of silence.
"Do you tailor all your own clothes?" he asked, hoping to bring levity back to the conversation. It worked.
"Oh – yes." It was as if she had forgotten his famous tailor's eye. "Well – most. Not quite all."
"You are very talented."
"Another thing you have said before."
"I'll say it again." As was usual, Harry had retreated and let him deal the wine. He poured generously for the both of them. "Perhaps, if you find Burford's stifling, you might consider working for Maillot's."
"Ah." She leaned forward a little, eyes narrowed with interest. "Is that what all your wooing amounts to, Mr. LeBeau? Are you attempting to poach my said talent?"
She was clearly not comfortable with first names just yet. When he responded, his tone was serious.
"Maillot's designer could use skill such as yours. But more than your skill, he could use your flair, your panache. I could put in a good word for you, if you'd like me to."
She could see he was not playing. Again she frowned a little, considering the offer.
"So the mighty Monsieur Maillot does not design his own garments?"
He didn't mind letting this particular cat out of the bag.
"You know as well as I do that fashion is no longer undertaken for the sake of fashion, Miss. Raven. It is a business. A very cut-throat one. We work for petty rivals. Maillot has as little interest in beauty as Burford does. But I'd wager his designer would cut you more latitude than Burford's one does."
She leaned back in her seat, her green eyes glittering.
"Mr. LeBeau, you are quite mistaken. Burford's designer gives me a great deal of latitude. I have no inclination to leave there, certainly not at the moment."
He was not in the least put out to hear it.
"Then it is a good thing," he rejoined with a small smile, "that I didn't merely bring you here to poach your said talent, but to woo you too." He raised his glass. "Cheers?"
She smiled around a pout. He had seen many smiles from many beautiful women, from luscious lips painted deep wine red. Hers were quite free of any cosmetic – yet he found himself longing to kiss them just the same – perhaps more.
As the thought passed his mind, she relented, and lifted her wine to his.
"Cheers," she said, as their glasses touched with a clink.
Dinner quickly followed.
"So tell me," she asked, during the first course. "How is it that a simple tailor at the House of Maillot comes to accompany such a famous actress on a shopping trip?"
He had prepared for this question to be asked at some point.
"Tailors are not well-paid," he explained casually, "as I'm sure you're aware. Miss Boudreaux is a regular customer of Maillot's – I've personally seen to her requests many times. She trusts my tastes – and she has employed me on the side to cultivate her own." The lies pattered so smoothly off his silver tongue, he could almost have believed them himself. "Maison Maillot is no longer where her heart lies, alas. Burford's name is far more alluring, as it is to most young women these days."
She was too polite to agree on the final point.
"Burford is very grateful for her custom," she spoke diplomatically. "He is determined the Peacock Dress shall be hers."
"You seem disapproving," he voiced what he had noted from the outset.
"Burford's designer created the dress with… a certain woman in mind," she explained.
He quirked an eyebrow at that, his interest piqued.
"Oh?" He took a sip of wine. "A lover, perhaps?"
"A ghost," she smiled faintly. "From the past."
It seemed like an intimate detail. He eyed her curiously.
"You are close to Burford's designer then?"
For the first time, she dropped her eyes.
"That is one way of putting it." She shifted a little uncomfortably in her seat, before raising her eyes to his again, a pained little smile on her face. "I've been working on a replica, if you must know, Mr. LeBeau. Miss Boudreaux cannot have the original. So we shall make up a copy for her."
No wonder, he thought, that she had been working such late nights!
"I'm sure Miss Boudreaux would be much obliged to know that," he murmured. "But I suspect Burford would want to keep that a secret. And so I shall assure you that his secret is safe with me."
Whatever sadness he had seen in her had passed. She picked up her wineglass and was all smiles again.
"I thought," she began, "when you first visited, that you were married to her, or at least engaged to her. You were so familiar with one another."
"And are you glad I am not?"
She laughed at the impertinence of the question.
"A little, perhaps." She took a sip of her wine, raked her glance over him in a way that most women did not, and added, "I thought you were of the same social standing as her. You dress so very well. At least for a mere tailor."
He was gratified that she appreciated his sense of fashion, and that she was not afraid to say so.
"As do you, for a mere seamstress."
"It seems you can afford finer fabrics than I."
"Tailors are paid better than seamstresses."
"That is true. And men are paid better than women, skill be damned."
She spoke with a frankness and a displeasure that he could only admire.
"I would pay you a great deal to work with me," he commented honestly.
Her pretty eyes shot to his.
"That is a dangerous notion for a man to express to a woman, Mr. LeBeau."
He toyed with his glass and returned her gaze.
"Alas. I find myself wanting to express dangerous notions when in your presence, Miss. Raven."
She flushed, her glance darting away. There were always limits to flirtation that one encountered, depending on the woman. He had just discovered hers.
"Mississippi," he declared at last, wisely changing the subject. The name drew her lovely gaze back to his again, this time questioning.
"Your accent," he explained. "You are originally from Mississippi, if I had to guess."
Her smile, thankfully, had returned.
"And you are from Louisiana, if I had to guess the same."
He inclined his head in acknowledgement.
"You're perceptive."
"So are you."
"We seem a match made in heaven, Miss Raven."
His forthright flirtation no longer made her blush.
"No match is made in heaven, sir," she remarked soberly. It was, indeed, such a forlorn remark that he could only wonder.
"True," he conceded. "But perhaps we can play make believe, at least for tonight."
It was another dangerous notion, but one that she did not seem to have the inclination to deny. For the rest of the evening their conversation was light and pleasantly diverting; and the more they talked the more he found he liked her, and the more certain he became that he would like to see her again.
When they finally left, she readily took the arm he offered her, and they walked slowly back towards their respective workplaces.
"Mr. Burford is arranging for Miss Boudreaux to be measured next week," she said, as they neared their destination. "Perhaps she will bring you along too."
He laughed a little at that.
"My presence wouldn't be required for taking measurements."
"No. But perhaps I would like your opinion on a few little matters."
He was surprised.
"My opinion?"
"Yes. The dress is not complete. You can see that yourself. There is something missing that I can't quite put my finger on. Perhaps your 'keen eye' can perceive what mine can't. And," she added a little tentatively, "perhaps I would like to see you again."
He stared. She didn't appear to be joking, and so he replied sincerely:
"Then I'm sure I can convince Miss Boudreaux to let me accompany her."
They were back at the point they had started, underneath the streetlamp. She was unaffectedly striking under its tawny glow.
He stopped and turned to her.
"Has anyone ever told you that you are beautiful, Miss Raven?" he murmured, unable to stop himself.
"Oh, Mr. LeBeau," she said a little sadly. "Do you imagine that you are the first?"
Yet again her words could only cause him to ponder – and he wondered, not for the first time, who was the man who had broken her heart.
"I hope not. A woman like you should be told loudly and often that she is beautiful, if it is so."
Her eyelids flickered, as though his earnestness disconcerted her. She said nothing.
"Let me walk you home," he said softly, taking her gloved hand in his.
She smiled and shook her head.
"Not yet, Mr. LeBeau."
"Remy," he reminded her, helplessly.
"Remy." She said it so very delicately. "I may be a low-class working girl, but I am not the kind you might imagine me to be. I very much enjoyed this evening. But if I should ever wish for you to walk me home," and she flicked her gaze up towards his, "then I will ask you to do so."
She took a step back. Before he could relinquish her hand, however, he lifted it to his lips. It was a gesture that brought a shy smile to her lips.
"Perhaps I will see you when Miss Boudreaux comes for her fitting. Goodnight, Mr. LeBeau."
"Goodnight, Miss Raven."
He dropped her hand; and she didn't stop smiling, as she turned and walked off into the night.
-oOo-